Work Text:
i. roses
Red. It is everywhere. Splattered across the cracked cobblestones like a drink poured too quickly. On jackets that lie on the street, frayed and tattered from the bullets that ripped through them but a few hours ago.
Red. The flag which dangles from a window, wrapped around a young man's ankle. He hangs there, blond curls blowing gently in the warm June breeze.
Red. The color of freedom and a world reborn.
Red. The color of the dawn.
Someone has taken a small rose and laid it on top of the many bodies lying haphazardly around. Nobody has taken them away.
But someone will.
They always do.
The petals of the flower are wilting in the late afternoon sun.
The sun sets. It is the same color of the blood that was spilled that day.
Red started the day and now red will end it. The color of death but also the hope of a new beginning.
ii. soil
Black. It is everywhere this night. Blanketing the sky without a moon to make the night glow. But there is no reason to. Black. On the mourning clothes that will make quick appearances perhaps, and then shoved back into the drawers, closets, and chests from which they came. Black. The color of grief and darkness. But also the color of rich Earth and the softest of velvets.
Night follows day and day follows night. This is how it has always been. People die. People live. This is how it always will be. Scars may fade by they never really go away. These deaths, oh these deaths. Those people were someone's sibling, child, friend, and lover. They shall not die in vain.
...And rain will make the flowers grow.
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